


Toujours

by butalasearwax



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-12
Packaged: 2018-01-01 07:14:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butalasearwax/pseuds/butalasearwax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock finally comes home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toujours

**Author's Note:**

> Ok so one day I was bored in the last 15 minutes of spanish class so I decided to start writing this. And I thought it would be a two page, one or two biology class thing but here we are, three weeks and 19 pages later. First things first. Credit. Big shoutout to Meg Koeller and Isabel Hagberg for helping me with my indecision and just being huge supporters in this and Tessa Patapoutian for also helping to edit. And thank you to my biology teacher without whom, if he had not ranted about how the world will get fat and die for half an hour every class, I would not have had time to write most of this. And then I saw a few little pictures and comments that I liked so I jotted them down and they worked for this so the little note is someone’s idea I just don’t know who’s so credit goes to whoever came up with it.  
> By the way this is my tumblr for whenever I post more things: http://butalasearwax.tumblr.com/

Toujours  
The day is an ordinary day- a Wednesday to be exact. There are dark clouds in the slate blue sky and the wind is picking up. The clock strikes five and I finish with my last patient. I hang my coat on a hook on the back of my office door and put my stethoscope back in its drawer. I lock the door behind me and pass through the sterile corridors to the front desk.  
“Night, Sarah.”  
“See you tomorrow, John,” she replies. I push the front door open again and am about to step out into the cold air when she calls me back.  
“John!” I turn; she is hurrying towards me, holding a jacket and scarf. “Today is not a day to forget these.” She smiles as she hands them to me. A rain had begun to fall; we could hear the pitter patter on the roof.  
“Thanks.” I pull the jacket on, buttoning it tightly to keep out the rain. I take the scarf and stare at its grey striped pattern for a moment before wrapping it around my neck. It had a comforting and familiar feel to it. It wasn’t always mine. I came into possession of it last year. 

I had awoken one morning and, on collecting the post, I found a thick envelope laying among the ordinary bills. It was thick paper and it had had neither a name nor a return address. I picked it up tentatively, and, after examining it carefully, I opened it. I pulled out a folded piece of fabric and a scrap of paper fluttered down by my feet. I picked it up and I remember the feeling of my heart clenching painfully. Written on it in a sprawling handwriting had been four words.  
Some miracles take time.  
I unfolded the soft fabric and wrapped the scarf carefully around myself. I jumped up suddenly and sprung out the door of my tiny flat. The street had been full of people bustling about, going to work, drinking their morning coffee, but there had been no figure in a long coat. Because I knew who had sent me the scarf. And from then on it was never again simply a scarf. It was hope. Hope that one day soon, Sherlock Holmes would return.

The cold rain snaps me back to reality. I am standing on Baker Street and am alone. I do not recall deciding to return here. My feet seem to have taken me here of their own accord.  
I pass an alley near my old flat. It is covered in painted graffiti; barely any brick remains visible. Where there used to be random words and drawings there is now something completely new. A large mural hides it all away. I had awoken the day after Sherlock's death to find it newly painted there over night. The silhouette of a man stands atop a tall building, his curly hair and long coat billowing out in an apparent wind, his arms spread wide, like wings. Light streams from behind the figure and written across the painting are the words "I believe in Sherlock Holmes". Farther down on the wall is a man in a suit with "Moriarty was real" sprawled across his face. Others have taken to painting and writing things like these. It is beautiful.  
I walk across the street to Mrs. Hudson’s cafe. I have barely seen her since moving out of 221b, but at this moment I’m in need of a familiar face. The bell jingles as I walk in. I wander up to the counter, fiddling with the end of Sherlock’s scarf. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t look up as I approach.  
“I’m closing up dear. Come back tomorrow.”  
“Mrs. Hudson, it’s me.” She looks up from her work, staring in disbelief.  
“John?” She hurries around the counter and looks me over. “How have you been?”  
“Good. Good. I’m-” My voice catches in my throat. “Not good,” I choke out. She hugs me tightly and my eyes begin to sting as tears well up in them. She sits me down at a table and makes me a strong cup of tea.She flips the sign in the door to say closed and sits down across from me with a cup of tea herself and a plate of jam biscuits between us.  
“What happened?” Mrs. Hudson asks. Her voice is comforting and motherly.  
“Nothing.” I take a biscuit from the plate and look away from her gaze.  
“Let me rephrase that. What’s wrong?”  
“Everything.” I stare down at the biscuit in my hand for a moment and throw it down back on the plate. “Just, I still don’t understand why. Why he-” I stop. I can’t go on.  
“Why he left you?” she finishes.  
“I try to piece it all together. I know Moriarty was real. I know he was. And I know Sherlock knew so why did he let Moriarty win? That’s not Sherlock. Sherlock would outlive God trying to win. All the times he told me to see what was going on, that Moriarty was playing with my mind, and he couldn’t see it himself? I just...I miss him. I’m angry that he left me. I am. But I just wish I could have seen him one more time. Told him how much I cared for him. Because I never did. I never told him and now I never will.”  
“Are you sure?” Mrs. Hudson says it carefully, delicately. “Sherlock was always pulling little things like this off. Remember that Adler woman?” She was trying to comfort me, I could tell, but it didn’t work.  
“But that’s just it,” I say. “I don’t know. I found a package a year ago. It had his scarf and a note. And it could only be from him, so where is he?” I cry out. Mrs. Hudson shrinks back in her chair. I didn’t realize my voice had become so loud. “Sorry,” I mutter. I take a sip of my tea, trying to compose myself. “Sorry, it’s just, there’s the chance he might still be alive. And I think he must be here. Every grey coat collar turned up against the wind, every person with dark curly hair, I think it’s him and it’s not. It never is. And I try to convince myself that it never will be, but there’s something in me that keeps the thought that he’s out there somewhere alive and I don’t know which is worse. That Sherlock is gone forever, or constantly being disappointed and hurt that it’s never him.” I finish my tea and take a biscuit from the plate. Mrs. Hudson looks across the table and takes my hand.  
“Don’t stop,” she answered. “That’s what he would have wanted. He would never want you to doubt the fact that he’d come through for you. He always has. And I think, because he’s Sherlock and how do any of us know what’s going on with him, that he still always will.”  
I leave Mrs. Hudson’s cafe. The rain has stopped, but night is falling quickly. I flag down a cab, do a quick check of the driver, and give him my address. I live on the outskirts of London in a rather bleak flat. While there are people lodging in all the surrounding flats, it seems empty compared to 221b. The refrigerator is incomplete without the random body parts and the tables far too less cluttered without the microscopes and test tubes.  
I hang my coat on the hook behind the door and walk around the room. Again, I’m struck by how sparse it is. The front door opens to the kitchen. There is a table in the center and a refrigerator on one side. The counter next to it holds a toaster and an old oven stove. A sink stood in the corner full of dishes that needed washing. I wandered past the dishes; I will do them tomorrow. I open the door to the refrigerator. I’m not looking for anything in particular, I just need something to do with myself. I make a mental note to get milk tomorrow. I fill the kettle at the sink and search through the drawers for a box of matches. I find them hidden amongst old batteries. I fumble for one and, striking it, light the stove. I look through the pile of mail on the table. Most of it is pointless, a few envelopes contain bills, and a wedding invitation; Mike Stamford, my old friend from the military. He was the person who had first introduced me to Sherlock Holmes. The invitation said the wedding was happening in a few months; I don’t pay much attention to it. I don’t have anyone to go with and I have never been terribly fond of going to weddings anyways. The kettle whistles, singing the tune that means the water inside is boiling. I pull a hot water bottle from another drawer and fill it carefully, screwing on the top when it is filled. I wander through the doorway into the room that serves as a bedroom and sitting room combined. I sit in one of the chairs, resting my right leg gingerly on the table. Before I had met Sherlock I had had a terrible limp; it had disappeared shortly after becoming flatmates with him. Now it suffers a dull ache if ever I exert it too much. I balance the hot water bottle on it, but it doesn’t seem to help much. I open my laptop. I mean to write something in my blog, but I no longer have anything worth writing about. I stare at the screen for a while, typing a few sentences and erasing them. The counter on the right still stands at 1,895. I close the computer; I am getting nowhere.  
The sky has grown quite dark. The clock on the wall reads 9:53. I hadn’t realized so much time had gone by. I get up from the chair, rubbing my leg. I walk to the small bathroom, turn on the tap, and pick up my toothbrush. I brush my teeth automatically; I barely notice what I’m doing. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I turn to leave and stop. I look tired; I am tired. There are bags under my eyes and my hair is thin and dull. My eyes are strangely vacant. Something was stolen from them and I doubt it will ever be returned.  
I leave the bathroom and cross to the chest of drawers next to my bed. I rummage through it and pull out a fresh t-shirt and boxer shorts. I change quickly, throwing my clothes in the basket in the closet across the room. I crawl under the covers and lie there for a few moments. As tired as I am, I feel restless. My mind races with questions unanswered. They don’t stay long enough for me to contemplate them. I try to catch one and it slips through my mind and is gone. The thoughts leave me and again, I am alone. I get up, walk back to the kitchen and fill a tall glass with water. I lean against the counter and take a few sips, trying to clear my thoughts. I notice that I am facing the front door. My eyes fall on my jacket hanging there and the scarf wrapped around the hook. I cross to the door, setting my water down on the table as I pass. I take Sherlock’s scarf from the door and return to my bedroom. I lie back down under the covers and hold his scarf to my chest. I don’t know why I would want to have it with me now. I don’t know why it would occur to me that it would help. But it does. It helps. Maybe it’s because it reminds me of him. Maybe it’s because it’s a relic of the past from when my life was exasperating and bizarre, but at the same time strangely safe and comfortable. I don’t know. I fall asleep clutching it tightly to me, its warmth soothing the ache in my leg. 

I wake up staring at the ceiling, the sheets tangled around my legs and my pillow on the floor. I’m trembling; my heart is racing and I’m covered in cold sweat. The alarm clock on the chest of drawers says 6:27. I reach for Sherlock’s scarf; I need something familiar, something to focus on as I try to control my breathing. My hand only finds blankets. I cannot find it, I cannot focus, I cannot calm myself. I close my eyes, trying to compose myself. My nightmare starts to play across my eyelids; I try to think of something else, anything else, but my mind is fixed on it.

I was walking down a street in London when my phone rang. I took it out of my pocket wondering who would be calling me. I stared down at the screen. Why was Sherlock calling me? Something important must have happened. He never calls if he can text. I answer it.  
“John.” His voice sounded tight.  
“Sherlock?” 

I tear the covers off my bed, searching frantically for the scarf. My breathing quickens as I still cannot find it.

Something was wrong. I didn’t know what, but something was clearly terribly wrong.  
“Sherlock, you okay?”  
“Turn around and walk back the way you came.” I was passing the front entrance to Saint Bartholomew’s Hospital.  
“I’m coming in.”  
“Just do as I ask. Please.”  
“Where?” I retraced my steps.  
“Stop there.”  
“Sherlock?” I was getting scared now. I had no idea what was going on.  
“Okay, look up. I’m on the rooftop.”  
“Oh, God.” My stomach dropped. I couldn’t think. All thought was erased from my mind except to get to Sherlock.  
“I-I...I can’t come down so we’ll just have to do it like this.”  
“What’s going on?” My voice shook uncontrollably.  
“An apology.”  
“Sherlock, stay there Okay? Just, don’t move. I’m coming up.”  
“John-”  
“Stop it now. Just stay exactly where you are.” I rushed around the corner and into the front entrance to the hospital. I sprinted to the bank of lifts and jammed my finger into one of the buttons. I waited anxiously, shifting from one foot to the other.  
“Hold on, Sherlock.” I ran across the corridor and yanked open the door to the stairwell.  
“I’m coming up the stairs.” I didn’t hear anything on the other end. “Sherlock?!”  
“I’m here.” His voice was tight and shaky. I raced up the stairs, flight after flight. My legs burned, but I kept climbing.  
“Almost there. Just hold on,” I gasped into my phone. Finally, I was on the last flight. I burst through the doors and out onto the roof. He was there, standing on the edge, his coat billowing in the wind.  
“Sherlock, what are you doing?” I started toward him.  
“No. Stay exactly where you are. Don’t move.” I stopped in my tracks, thinking of what to do, what to say.  
“You told me once,” I began, “that you weren’t a hero. There were times I didn’t even think you were human. But let me tell you this. You were the best man, and the most human, human being that I have ever met, and nobody will ever convince me otherwise. I was so alone, and I owe you so much. There’s just one more thing. One more miracle. Please, Sherlock, for me. Don’t do this. Could you do that for me, please? Just, stop this. Stop it.” My voice broke and my eyes burned with tears. There was silence when I finished. I didn’t know what was going on in Sherlock’s head. His back was to me; I couldn’t see his face.  
“Goodbye, John.”  
“No, don’t!” I sprang forward, reaching out to catch him, to pull him to safety, but I was too late. He was falling, and then he was gone.

***

I fling myself down on the floor and reach under my bed. My fingers find my slippers, a crate, a few books, until finally I find something that feels like fabric. I pull it out and the momentary hope that had filled me leaves as quickly as it had come. It’s simply a sock. I collapse back onto the floor and lean against the wall, pressing my hands over my eyes. I start to doubt that I even had Sherlock’s scarf to begin with. Nothing in my life makes any sense anymore; I must have dreamed that Sherlock had given me his scarf. Because it meant that he was out there somewhere and living in a delusion with him is better than living in reality without him. 

I stood on the roof a mere two steps from the place where Sherlock had been moments ago, my arm still raised to bring him back to safety. Waves of shock crashed over my numb body. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t think. I was screaming in my head, but I couldn’t make a sound.  
“It was you.” The voice broke its way through my dazed mind. I stumbled back a step, turning around.  
“What?”  
“You were wondering why. It was you.” Moriarty was standing in the middle of the roof.  
“I have to get down there.” The words rushed from my mouth in a jumbled mess. I didn’t fully understand what Moriarty had said. It was a blur of sound that my shocked brain couldn’t decipher. I staggered toward the stairwell, barely able to control my movement. I had only gone a few paces when I found him blocking me.  
“John,” he said, grabbing my shoulder to keep me from moving past him. “There’s nothing you can do.”  
“But I’m-”  
“The reason,” he interrupted me, his voice cold and accusatory.  
“What do you mean?”  
“You were the reason, John. Why he jumped.”  
“But I don’t understand.” I was confused. Why was Moriarty here? Why was he saying I drove Sherlock to this?  
“You doubted him. You doubted him, and he lost you. He was your only friend. You were his first. You felt lonely. He felt lucky. You were the one thing, the one thing besides his work, that he truly cared about. He thought he would be with you forever. And when he needed you the most, when his entire world was crumbling around him, he lost you. Fancy that. I’d say to imagine losing Sherlock, but you don’t have to imagine that anymore. Because of you.  
I suppose I really should be thanking you, you see. You saved me the trouble of doing it myself. However, all the fun’s gone now. How can I kill a man who’s already killed himself?”  
My mind swirled. He was right. I was the one who had left, not him. I had abandoned him when he had needed me the most. Pain and guilt overwhelmed me.  
“John, what are you doing?” I found myself standing on the edge of the rooftop. I closed my eyes, trying to shut out the world around me.  
“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” I whispered, leaning forward. Gravity took me and I fell through the air, plummeting toward the concrete sidewalk. Amidst the sound of the wind roaring up past me, I heard something; laughter. A cold, maniacal laugh that cut through wind. It was Moriarty.  
My eyes snapped open as realization hit me. It was Moriarty. All along, everything, was him. The world turning on Sherlock. Sherlock jumping to his death, forever thought of as a fraud. And this. This was Moriarty’s plan. To destroy Sherlock and everything he cared about.  
He had won. And there was nothing I could do. The pavement rushed up toward me, ten feet, six feet, three feet- I awoke with a start, covered in sweat and tangled in my sheet.

I drop my hands from my face and breath deeply. It’s just a dream I tell myself. It’s not real. It’s not your fault. But nothing seems real anymore. I get slowly to my feet. I pick my blankets up from their twisted heap on the floor and begin to untangle them. I finish laying them out and reach down for my pillow. A strip of grey fabric falls as I pull it out from between the bed and chest of drawers. Sherlock’s scarf. I throw my pillow onto my bed and snatch it up. It’s real. He’s real. I dress quickly, a new spring in my step. I am again filled with hope.  
I start to make coffee when I realize there’s no milk. I open the cupboard, looking for something for breakfast, but I find nothing. It’s 7:46. I don’t need to be at work until 9:30. I decide to run to the shop before work. I grab my coat and put on my shoes. I take my phone from the counter and wrap Sherlock’s scarf around my neck.  
The air is cold when I step out onto the street from my flat. The sky is grey and cloudy again and there is a sharp wind that pushes me gently down the street. There’s a shop about a fifteen minute walk away from my place and I head off in it’s direction, turning my coat collar up against the wind.  
I check my watch. 8:03. I am almost at the shop; it’s about a block away.  
“John.” I freeze. The voice sends shivers down my spine. I turn slowly on the spot and look at the man half a block away. He is standing surrounded by people, but he stands out instantly; tall, with curly black hair, his long coat billowing out behind him in the wind.  
“Sherlock.”

***

I stand frozen in the street, people pushing their way past, going about their ordinary business. I don’t know how to feel, what to think. Relief, confusion, joy, anger, betrayal, and pure happiness overwhelm me. He is alive. After three years, three of the hardest years of my life, he is alive.  
“Why now?” I speak the words without realizing I had decided to say them.  
“Well, I needed my scarf back, didn’t I?” His voice catches in his throat, barely noticeably. He is walking toward me and I find my feet carrying me to him. “And,” he adds, “I heard you were out of milk.”  
“Funny doesn’t suit you. Really, Sherlock. Why now? Three years, three bloody long years-”  
“John-” His voice is pleading. I am in his arms and he is holding me tightly.  
“I thought you were dead,” I manage.  
“I wasn’t.”  
“Well I can see that.” I realize Sherlock isn’t holding me in an embrace, he’s trying to hold himself steady. I tighten my grip; I will not let him go again, I will not disappoint him like before.  
“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry John.” His voice shakes. I realize Sherlock is crying silently, his tears mixing with my hair.  
“It’s OK.” I try to calm him down. I’ve never seen Sherlock so upset before and I don’t quite know what to do. All I know is that I have to put aside my pain and anger and confusion and be strong for him. I owe him that much. “You’re here now.”  
“But I wasn’t here. And it almost killed you. And I knew it was my fault and it killed me. Everyday it killed me to see you in such pain and I could easily have fixed everything but I didn’t and I’m just so sorry, John.”  
People start to turn and look round at us, whispering to each other as they pass, but I don’t care.  
“It was Moriarty. He would’ve killed you. You and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn’t jump and I couldn’t lose you, John, I just couldn’t.”  
“There wasn’t anything you could’ve done.” He doesn’t respond, we simply stand in a sea of people, still wrapped in a tight embrace. He loosens his grip and I look up into his face. Tear tracks run down his cheeks, but his face was already returning to its normal complexion. I can hardly tell he had been crying only moments before. I reach up and gently pass my fingers over his cheek, removing the last trace of tears.  
“Here.” I remove his scarf from around my neck, carefully wrapping it around his, and turn up his coat collar. “Back to your mysterious old self.” My hand lingers as I smooth his coat. The fabric is thick and warm. I look back into his face, his pale green eyes older and sadder than the last time I had seen them.  
He is tall, much taller than I am, at least six feet. I move my hand back to his scarf, twisting the thick fabric around my fingers.  
“I missed you, John.”  
“Shut up, you idiot.” And I pull him down by the scarf and kiss him gently. Sherlock stands rigid, as though unsure of what to do. Finally he begins to relax. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me closer, kissing me back slowly. The noise of the busy London street fades until all I can hear is my own heartbeat. I close my eyes and the crowds of people disappear, leaving just the two of us. I love him. I think I always have and I know I always will. He is frustrating and ridiculous and annoying and impossible and genius and mad and fantastic and far from perfect but he is mine.  
Simultaneously it feels as though no time and an eternity have gone past when we break apart. I’m smiling for what feels like the first time in three years. Sherlock grins down at me, the sadness in his eyes replaced with a new spark I’ve never seen before.  
“People are definitely going to talk,” I laugh.  
‘What does it matter?” Sherlock asks.  
“It doesn’t,” I say, taking his hand. We walk down the street together toward the shop on the corner. People turn around and look at us as we go by. We hear a couple whisper to each other as they walk past.  
“Is that him?”  
“Who?”  
“Him!”  
“The short one?”  
“No! Tall, long coat.”  
“Who is he?”  
“Sherlock Holmes!”  
“My God, you’re right!”  
“I thought he died.” I look over to see how Sherlock is reacting to this. They weren’t really trying to keep their voices down, and now more people were beginning to stare, but his face is as inscrutable as ever.  
“You made the headlines. ‘Suicide of Fake Genius’.” I try to keep any note of bitterness out of my voice. “People couldn’t stop talking about it for weeks.”  
“I imagine so.” We walk along in silence for another minute or so until we reach the corner shop. The bell tinkles hen we push the door open and walk in.  
“Morning,” the man behind the counter mumbles.  
“Morning,” I say cheerfully. Sherlock doesn’t say anything; he simply looks straight ahead and continues walking.  
“Sherlock, say hello,” I hiss out of the corner of my mouth.  
“Why?”  
“Because it’s polite.”  
“So?”  
“Just say it!”  
“Hello,” he mutters without looking at the man.  
“Close enough. Right, we need milk. And some bread, maybe-” I stop talking suddenly. “Hang on, what time is it?”  
“9:08,” he replies.  
“Dammit. I have to be at work at 9:30.”  
“Where’s that?”  
“Same as before. Listen, I’d better phone in and say I can’t come today.”  
“Why aren’t you going in?”  
“Because,” I say exasperatedly. Same old Sherlock. “I haven’t seen you in three years.” I start dialing the hospital number.  
“Well then what does one more afternoon matter?”  
“Don’t be ridicu- hello, Sarah? Yes, hi, it’s John. Listen, I can’t come in today. No, no I’m fine, it’s just kind of a, er, family emergency. I can’t talk now, I’ll explain it all to you later. Thanks Sarah. Alright, I’ll see you tomorrow. Bye. Thanks again.” I hang up my phone and slip it back into my pocket. When I turn around, Sherlock isn’t there.  
“Oh God, where’s he gone?” I mutter to myself. The lady next to me hears me.  
“He went over there, love,” she says sweetly. 

“Thanks.” I head off in the direction she had indicated. I see him standing at the counter and my heart sinks. I walk over to him and push the pack of cigarettes back across the counter to the cashier. “I thought you had stopped.”  
“I started again.”  
“But why?” The man at the counter looks confused. “Sorry, don’t mind us. Just the milk, thanks,” I say to him. I turn my attention back to Sherlock.  
“I got bored,” he says flatly.  
“Well, you’re stopping again. No, don’t give me that,” I say as he begins to protest. “We agreed before, cold turkey. You were doing really well, you can do it again.” I slide three quid across to the man for the milk. He hands me my change and I drag Sherlock back outside before he can say anything else.  
“Right, we should probably stop by my flat, put the milk away,” I say, turning in that direction.  
“In a bit. Come on.” Sherlock grabs my sleeve and starts pulling me the opposite way.  
“What are we doing? It’ll spoil, you know.”  
“No it won’t. Cold day like today, it’ll be fine for a few hours. You look dreadful. Breakfast, I think. I know a little place a bit aways. Taxi!” He hails a cab and we climb inside.  
“Ok, you’ve got questions,” he says, glancing at me from across the cab.  
I had always had so many questions to ask him that I never thought I’d be able to, so many things I had wanted to say but never did. But now I have the chance to ask, the chance to say what I had never said and I can’t think of any, not a single one.  
“Mrs. Hudson,” I blurt out.  
“Sorry?”  
“What do we tell Mrs. Hudson?”  
“Of all the things to ask, that’s your number one?”  
“Well, I just, I don’t know. I’m in shock, ok? You were dead an hour ago and now you’re here and I don’t know what I’m saying so-”  
“I’d give you a blanket but I don’t have one,” he cuts me off.  
“Well that helps a lot, Sherlock, thanks.”  
“I’ll just say hello.”  
“What? No you won’t the poor lady’d have a heart attack!”  
‘Why?”  
“You can’t just waltz in and say ‘hello, I’m not dead, could I have a cup of tea?’”  
"Well, why not?"  
"Just, let me talk to her first, OK?"  
"Fine. But what, exactly, are you going to tell her?"  
"I'm not quite sure...."  
"Well, better think quick." Our cab stops and he hops out. I follow him and realize where we are- Mrs. Hudson's cafe. I hurry after him and grab his arm as we reach the door.  
"Sherlock," I say as he reaches for the handle. "Let me go in first." He stares at me intently for a moment before replying.  
"Fine. Go ahead." I smile reassuringly at him, then open the door and walking in. There's only one other person there, but they are about to leave. Mrs. Hudson looks up.  
"Hello, John. You're looking much better today, dear."  
"Thanks Mrs. Hudson. Do you have a minute?"  
"I'm working. Any chance you could stop by after I close up?"  
"It's really very important."  
"Well, I suppose, but-"  
"Great. Here," I say, pulling out a chair for her. I'll make you some tea." I hand her a cup of strong chamomile and sit down opposite her.  
"What's this all about, John?" I sit there for a minute, trying to think of what to say.  
"Have you ever-" I stop, thinking. "Have you ever thought something had happened, but it actually never did?" She stares at me inquisitively, as if expecting me to keep speaking.  
"Did you ever have a cat, Mrs. Hudson?"  
"No, I'm allergic to them. I get all itchy. I really don't know what you're trying to say."  
"OK, ummm...." I don't know how to continue. She stands as the bell rings.  
"I'm sorry, John, I have to go-". She stops suddenly and stares at the doorway.  
"Hello, I'm not dead, could I have a cup of tea?" The deep voice mixes with the tinkle of breaking china. Mrs. Hudson had dropped her cup.  
"Oh, for God's sake," I mutter to myself.  
"Sherlock," she gasps.  
"Hello," he says, crossing the room to her.  
"How dare you!" she shrieks, smacking him on the arm. "How dare you do that to us!" Sherlock takes a step backwards, looking alarmed. I smile. "Three years! You think, after all that time, you can just come back here like nothing happened?" Her voice breaks off and her face softens. "What did happen?" she asks, wrapping him in a motherly embrace. Sherlock looks at me, confused by her sudden change in expression.  
"Sentiment?" he mouths at me. I nod and motion for him to hug her back. He does, rather awkwardly at first, and after a minute she lets go.  
"Oh dear," she fusses, her eyes falling on the broken china and spilled tea.  
"I'll get it." I hurry to the back and fetch the broom. Sherlock makes three new cups of tea as I clean up the mess.  
"You wouldn't, by chance, still have 221B available, would you?" he asks, perching himself lightly on the edge of one of the tables.  
"I do. No one wanted it after you shot up the wall and left all those burn marks on every table."  
"They were experiments."  
"Well, whatever they were, they made a mess of the flat. And all the stains-"  
"All right, Mrs. Hudson," I say, smiling. "Sherlock is, how do we put this, an interesting person to live with."  
"What's that supposed to mean?" he scowls.  
"You're the one with thumbs in the fridge, you tell me."  
"Mrs. Hudson, could John have something to eat?" He changes the subject abruptly.  
"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," she replies in a sing song voice.  
"So we have the flat back. Wonderful. And right now we're customers. John'll have eggs and toast please," he smiles up at her.  
"Sherlock," I say sternly. "Timing."  
"Not good?" he questions innocently.  
"Not really, no."  
"But what did I do wrong this time? No one died-"  
"You did! Remember? Be a little sensitive, please." I shake my head and go to take a sip from my tea. "You didn't drug it this time, did you?"  
"Not at all." We burst out laughing together, Mrs. Hudson looking from one of us to the other. Things are beginning to return back to normal. The door bursts open and Mrs. Turner from next door rushes in. Sherlock and I stop laughing and stare in amazement at her flushed face.  
"Have you seen it, Martha?" she exclaims, rushing over to the tele on the wall without looking at us.  
"Seen what?" Mrs. Hudson hurries over to her.  
"On the news," Mrs. Turner turns on the news and watched it intently. "Fake Suicide of Genius?" is plastered across the screen.  
"The Reichenbach Fall, as it has become known, gained much attention three years ago," the announcer is saying. "Possibly one of London's most brilliant amateur detectives, Sherlock Holmes, confessed to one of the most shocking scandals this city has seen in a long time. Mr. Holmes hired a local actor, Richard Brooks, to play Jim Moriarty, a criminal mastermind that Holmes invented with the sole purpose of creating mysterious crimes that Holmes could solve. Mr. Holmes jumped to his death in disgrace from Saint Bartholomew's Hospital directly following his confession to his supposed friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson." Sherlock and I look at each other as the reporter continues. "But is all this actually true? Was the scandal, itself, a scandal? Sherlock Holmes has been seen in London once again this morning, walking the streets, catching a cab, and even buying milk. So is he really dead, or is this simply another hoax? Andrew Charteris says that Holmes came into his shop early this morning. We go now live to-". Sherlock turns the tele off, cutting the reporter short.  
"Well, that was incredibly fast," he says with a hint of amusement. Mrs. Turner leaps backwards, staring at him in disbelief.  
"How in God's name? she gasps, looking him up and down.  
"I think we'd all like to know, Sherlock," I say, crossing over and joining the others.  
“Mrs. Hudson,” he begins. “John and I will be moving back in right away.”  
“Hang on, who says I’m moving back here?” I blurt out.  
“Aren’t you?”  
“What if I’m perfectly happy in my flat right now?”  
“Oh come on. You’re not, though, are you. Look at your eyes. You haven’t slept well in months.”  
“OK, Sherlock, you can stop now.”  
“Let me finish, John, I haven’t had a case in ages. Your leg’s hurting you again, not like before, but clearly you’re having trouble with what happened before with me. You blame yourself, don’t. There wasn’t anything you could have done. Ella’s not helping, obviously, she never did. You’re back’s stiff, so you must have an old mattress. Rather small, too, I’d say. So no, you are not perfectly happy in your flat. Mrs. Hudson if you’d get the papers.” I smile and shake my head while Mrs. Turner stared dumbstruck.  
“Right, OK, Mrs. Hudson, we’ll take 221B again.”  
“Excellent,” Sherlock says, clapping his hands together. He sits back in a chair and doesn’t speak for a minute.  
“Well?” I prompt.  
“Oh, right, yes, you want to hear what happened.” He sits silently, staring off out the window, watching people meander down the street.  
“Moriarty was a proper genius. He was the most brilliant criminal I have ever met. And he wasn’t alone. He had a network of people working for him in every corner of the globe. I had to be sure it was destroyed before I could return.”  
“So Moriarty was real!” Mrs. Turner exclaimed.  
“Of course he was,” he says.  
“Only I heard on the news he wasn’t and-”  
“Oh don’t listen to them, they’re idiots,” he cuts her off.  
“But they said you invented him, it was all you!” she accuses, her voice rising as she jumps out of her seat and backs away.  
“Sit down, Mrs. Turner!” he orders. She looks taken aback, but she takes her seat nonetheless. “Now the news was told by a Mr. Richard Brooks that I invented Moriarty when Moriarty had invented Richard Brooks.” She looks skeptical, but doesn’t question any farther.  
“Sherlock Holmes is not a fake,” I tell her. “I would trust him with my life.” I look at him as I say this; he catches my eye for a moment before turning away, his mouth giving an involuntary twitch of a smile. Mrs. Turner appears convinced, if not a little embarrassed.  
“So is that it? That’s all you were doing?” I ask him.  
“It took longer than I thought.” He stares at his teacup as he says this, not looking at us. There’s more to it than what he’s telling us. I know there is. I know him better than he thinks I do. If Moriarty’s people had found him out, he wouldn’t have been the one in danger.  
“Ah, Mrs. Hudson, the papers. Thank you.” He takes the lease papers from her and studies them. He passes them to me after signing them with a flourish.  
“I’ll have to call my landlord,” I say. “God, I’m going to be in so much trouble.” I smile as I sign my name below Sherlock’s. This time I know what I am signing up for. All the madness and danger and excitement. But without all that, just being in 221B Baker Street with Sherlock Holmes, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. 

***

Sherlock brings the milk up to 221B while Mrs. Hudson cooks me breakfast. I’m finishing my toast when he returns. Mrs. Hudson refuses to let me pay, insisting I have been through enough. I drop a few quid in the tip jar as Sherlock joins me.  
We spend most of the rest of the morning moving things from my old flat. It doesn’t take long, only a few hours; there isn’t much to move. My landlord is surprisingly understanding. I think Sherlock talked to him while I was filling some boxes, poor bloke. But we are back in Baker Street by 2:00 nonetheless. We stand in the middle and look around at the familiar flat.  
“Home sweet home,” I say, smiling up at him.  
“Hmmm...” he frowns. “Where’s my skull?”  
“I don’t have it.”  
“Mrs. Hudson!” he calls.  
“Oh, don’t bother the lady.”  
“Mrs. Hudson, where’s my skull?” he asks when she appears in the doorway.  
“Oh dear, not that thing again.”  
“Where did you put it?”  
“Well I put it away in a closet somewhere. I didn’t want it out while people were looking at the flat. It’s not normal, you know.”  
“I think we’ve all agreed that Sherlock is not a normal person,” I chime in as he rushes off to search the closets. “And thank you. For everything. He’s thankful too, you know.”  
“Found it!” we hear him exclaim from the next room before she can respond. He strides back past us and puts the skull back on it’s place on the mantel. Mrs. Hudson gives it a distasteful look.  
“I’d better get going boys,” she mumbles leaving.  
“Everything good?” I ask as he joins me in the middle of the room again.  
“Now it is,” he says, taking my hand. “Come on.”  
“Where are we going?” I ask as he leads me out the flat, down the stairs, and into the busy street.  
“To see the city. I’ve been out of it far too long. I was stuck in the Tibetan monastery for the past few months.”  
“You? In a monastery?”  
“The Monastery, John, I met the Dalai Lama.”  
“You met the Dalai Lama?” I say incredulously.  
“Of course,” he answers. “Very interesting man.”  
“Anything else you did?” I’m fascinated by his story, but something about his casual, nonchalant air frustrates me.  
“I went to France, Norway, Italy- molto bene!”  
We wander around the London for hours. We don’t say much; just being in each others company again is enough. We keep mostly to side streets; Sherlock is keen to stay out of the limelight. Everything is beginning to return to normal, or as normal as an ex-army doctor living with a highly functioning sociopathic consulting detective can be.  
It’s evening when we return to Baker Street. I hang my jacket behind the door and walk to the kitchen. I’m making coffee when I hear Sherlock shouting.  
“What are you doing here?”  
“What am I doing here, what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be dead. Thanks for letting us know by the way. Had to find out through this,” I hear Lestrade saying. I enter the room in time to see him brandishing a newspaper.  
“He came back this morning. Almost gave Mrs. Hudson and me a heart attack,” I tell him. “We were going to tell you tomorrow.” It comes out rather harshly. Lestrade blinks and stares at me, looking surprised at my tone.  
“You still haven’t answered my question, detective inspector, what are you doing here?” Sherlock continues.  
“Believe it or not, I came to say hello,” he answers.  
“You’ve brought a newspaper, clearly you want to talk about what’s in it.”  
“Alright, I want to know how you did it.”  
“Did what?”  
“Survived. There’s all sorts of theories in here,” Lestrade says, showing his paper to us.  
“Oh it wasn’t a big deal, hardly worth explaining.”  
“Excuse me?” I cut in, anger rising in me.  
“It was simple enough.”  
“Not a big deal? You were dead!” I shout. For three years I have tried to stay calm, to keep my anger and confusion and hurt inside, but I can’t do it anymore. “I watched you fall, I was there! You had no pulse, I was at your funeral!” My voice shakes and my eyes burn with tears. Lestrade looked questioningly from Sherlock to me, shifting from foot to foot uncomfortably. I hear footsteps racing up the stairs and Mrs. Hudson bursts into the room. Lestrade joins her instantly.  
“What’s going on?” she squeaks.  
“Little bit of a domestic,” he whispers. “Not my division.”  
“Three bloody long years!” My voice is now choked with sobs. Sherlock looks upset; Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade don’t know what to do. “Did you ever think what it would do to me?!” I have completely broken. I stand there shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. “I was alone and confused and lost and it killed me! I died every day hoping you would come back when I knew you never would.” My voice fades out. I open my mouth to say more, but then Sherlock is there next to me. He catches me in his arms (I hadn’t even noticed I had started falling) and holds me tightly. I clutch at the back of his shirt, trying to keep myself steady.  
“Definitely not my division,” I hear Lestrade say to Mrs. Hudson.  
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock whispers in my ear. “You have every right to be angry. But you’re wrong. I did think of you. Every day I wanted to come back and every day I had to force myself to stay away.”  
I stay in Sherlock’s arms even after my sobs finally subside. His embrace is strong and steady, telling me that from now on and forever he’ll always be there.  
“I don’t mean to interrupt,” Lestrade’s voice breaks through the silence. We jump apart and see him and Mrs. Hudson standing together near the door. “But I have to get back to the station. The boys will never believe this.”  
“Give my regards to Donovan and Anderson,” Sherlock calls after him as he and Mrs. Hudson leave. I catch his eye and we burst out laughing.  
“I’ll finish making that coffee then,” I say, wandering over to the kitchen. The coffee is stone cold. I reheat it and carry the two mugs into the living room. Sherlock is curled up in an armchair reading the paper Lestrade left.  
“Anything?” I ask, handing him his coffee and sitting on the sofa opposite him.  
“No,” he answers shortly. “I thought there’d be something, there should be something.” He flings the paper down on the table. I pick it up and start flipping through the pages. Apart from a missing cat and a shoplifting, there’s nothing.  
“Maybe tomorrow,” I say, putting the newspaper down and stretching out on the sofa. The exhaustion from the day crashes over me and my eyelids start to close. My leg doesn’t bother me at all. Sherlock is talking about an experiment he’s been waiting to do. I try to listen, but I struggle to stay awake.  
“You’re not going to disappear tonight, are you?” I mumble.  
“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I hear him say before my exhaustion wins and I drift off to sleep.  
A sound pulls me back into semi-consciousness.  
“Thank you,” the deep voice whispers in my ear. I feel a blanket being pulled over me and a hand run through my hair before I fall back into peaceful sleep.  
I am awoken again in the morning to bright sunshine and the sound of a door bursting open. Sherlock strides into the room, slipping his mobile back into his jacket pocket.  
“Lestrade just phoned,” he says excitedly. “Body found near Waterloo, has a strange symbol burned onto it and nothing else. Well, nothing else the police can find.”  
“Morning to you too,” I say, pulling the blanket off and standing. I change into fresh clothes quickly while Sherlock rushes around, muttering about the incompetence of the police.  
“Coming?” he calls as he throws on his coat and opens the door. I look around the flat, taking in the haphazard piles of papers, the scratches in the tables and walls, the scientific equipment taking up every free surface, the skull on the mantel, all the odds and ends that make the flat ours.  
“Always.”


End file.
